


Super Fade

by imperialhuxness



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: (sort of), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - The American South, Angst with a Happy Ending, Body Mod!Hux, Brendol Hux's A+ Parenting, Deepthroating, Exes, Fireworks, Getting Back Together, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide attempt, Kylux/Explosives is the real otp, M/M, Mental Health Issues, New Year's Eve, Oral Sex, the BenArmie Fireworks Store AU no one asked for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:21:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22040986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperialhuxness/pseuds/imperialhuxness
Summary: After Ben returns to his hometown from a disastrous first semester of college, his dad attempts to revive one of their oldest father-son bonding activities: picking out New Year's fireworks.His going-places high school ex is the last person he expects to find on the other side of the counter..Over a gray v-neck—not a button-down, what thehell— that bares his pale throat and prominent collar bones, the guy’s wearing a leather jacket. An enamel pride flag pin shines on his lapel.“Oh, my god,” Ben breathes. “Armitage?”What has to be Armitage fucking Hux looks him up and down. “How‘s Yale?” he says, and adds belatedly, “You may set your items on the table.”
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Armitage Hux/Kylo Ren
Comments: 48
Kudos: 459





	Super Fade

**Author's Note:**

> Mind the tags, friends! There's nothing shown, but Ben's introspective is candid. Stay safe <3

“I’m thinking Roman candles.” Han shifts the Firebird back into first as the stoplight flickers green. “What do you say, kid?”

Ben runs a hand through his hair, his elbow propped next to the window. Drab wooden storefronts and shuttered gas stations zip by under the gray late December sky. 

“Rey asked for sparklers,” he mutters.

“Oh shit, yeah. That’s right.” There’s a beat of road noise; even with the newest replacement engine, the Firebird’s still louder than it needs to be. Then it comes: “You’ve—got a good memory, you know that?”

Ben rolls his eyes into the side mirror, tips the crown of his skull back against the leather of the headrest.

Han’s been saying shit like that ever since Ben got back two weeks ago, awkward little compliments, like he’s trying to remind him he’s not a fucking waste of space and oxygen—too little, too late.

But in all fairness, what else do you say to your kid when he just had a mental breakdown at fucking Yale, and his wrists are still bandaged under his hoodie? 

Han hasn’t known what to say to him in years, and the recent crisis hasn’t changed that. The school called him first—Emergency Contact #1–and it went to voicemail.

Ben’s hands itch for his earbuds, and Han probably won’t even care if he puts them in. You botch a second suicide attempt, and suddenly your parents have higher priorities than whether you can hear them over Twenty Øne Piløts.

(Rey’s the only who gets that TØP’s entire discography on loop has been the only thing keeping him going.)

Han seems to be waiting for Ben to acknowledge his little affirmation, but he’ll get no such satisfaction.

As the row of mechanics’ shops on the edge of town trails off into fallow farmland, broken up at intervals by thin clumps of cedars, Han tries again.

“It’s not too much longer now,” he says, like Ben’s approximately eight and asked  _ are we there yet. _ “I think this one’s the only tent up this year. Guess it’s out this far to cover the whole county.”

“Cool.”

Han drums his fingers against the wheel. His wedding ring glints faintly in the dull light. “Your mom said we could get some of the big artillery-style ones.” He shoots a glance toward Ben, quirking a brow. “You pick ‘em, you light ‘em.”

“I’ll try.”

Han acts like he didn’t hear him. “You used to always ask me if you could, remember that?”

“Yeah.” Ben winds a loose thread at the end of his sleeve around his thumb, sighs. Makes an attempt. “And the one time you let me, and I, like, almost got my hand stuck in the tube.”

Han snorts. “Yeah, I thought your mom was the one who was gonna blow up.”

Ben’s lip twitches weakly, almost against his will.

“Gotcha,” Han says, cutting his eyes at Ben again.

The trees roll by, all peeling bark and livid needles against the dead sky.

“Music?” Han says, after a minute.

“If you want.”

***

The day before New Year’s Eve, the fireworks tent on the side of the highway is at least somewhat busy.

Off-the-lot pickups and well-loved clunkers line the gravel parking lot outside the makeshift store, but Han and Ben appear to have arrived as the rush is passing.

Most of the customers inside are already in line, crowding the single cash-only register enough to completely obscure the card table Ben knows it’s sitting on. There’s a low hum of heavily accented chatter, comparing last year’s stock to this year’s, and discussing worrisome new explosives regulations two counties over.

“There’s some pansy group pressing to make it state-wide,” a bald, leather-vested guy is saying to what could be his doppelganger. “No aerial displays in residential zones. If that ain’t a load of bullshit.”

“Ehh.” His counterpart shrugs. “What’re they gonna do if you’re twenty miles from the nearest police station?”

Han raises an eyebrow at Ben and proffers him a basket. “We’re good for this year, anyway,” he says, low, falsely conspiratorial.

Ben takes the basket and bites his lip. It’s like Han thinks he’s in elementary school, and they’re “sneaking out” to Dairy Queen for Blizzards at ten p.m.

“Okay,” Ben says, tensing up involuntarily against the churn of voices and the worry he’ll see someone he knows. Who will ask him  _ how is it up there in....where’s that fancy school of yours again _ ?

Ben’s mom has been... _ giving the impression _ ...to everyone who asks that he’ll be returning to Yale in January after winter break, just like every other perfectly functional college student in town. 

Whatever. 

It’ll become pretty fucking obvious when he’s still laying around their basement in the spring, in and out of Dr. Kalonia’s office and God knows what kind of intensive therapy they’re going to try to put him in.

Either that or Leia’s planning to send him up to Luke’s or somewhere worse “to get you some peace and quiet.” 

More like to save face with the constituency. How could the district state senator have anything less than the perfect family. (Even if her husband’s a bit of a lovable derelict.)

“Hey, you want to get some of the tanks?”

Beside Ben, Han’s picked a pair of cardboard army tanks out of a box on the nearest folding table. Firecracker fuses are threaded through their underbellies; light them and they’ll roll, flashing white and orange out the back until they sputter to a stop, charred and deflated.

“You always used to—“ Han continues.

“I _ know _ ,” Ben snaps, before he can stop himself.

Han’s face falls almost imperceptibly, but he sucks his lower lip before moving to put the tanks bank.

_ You always do this,  _ screams Ben’s head.  _ You always make everyone feel— _

“No. Shit, I’m sorry. Get them. I—“ Ben stops before his voice can totally splinter.

Han’s hand twitches like he wants to clap him on the shoulder or something, but he just drops the tanks in the basket. “I get it,” he says. “You’re all good, kid.”

Ben nods. He has to keep it together. He has to.

Han leads the way further down the table, plucking off colored smoke bombs and noise-making crackers. Ben offers little but a shrug when Han asks for his obviously inexpert opinion on which brands to get.

The tent is lit by flickering yellow bulbs, wired sporadically overhead. Under the buzz of conversation, a generator hums.

The same gray folding tables spread in every direction, lined with cardboard boxes of specialty crackers, plastic bins of sparklers, and neatly stacked packages of the artillery-style fireworks Leia has permitted this year—little colored shells with black plastic launching tubes.

“Excalibur or Zeus?” Han asks, holding up an 18-count of thick shells and a 24-count of slightly slimmer ones, in a more vivid palette of colors.

Ben points, then holds up the basket. “Quantity over quality.”

“I like it.”

The Zeus Fluorescents package takes up nearly the whole basket, and weighs Ben’s arm down considerably. He hefts the weight to give his hand a break as Han pauses by the Roman candles.

A few rows of tables away, customers laden with those  _ thankyouthankyouthankyou _ bags file out of the tent, but the line stays long. This tent, or at least one like it, has gone up every Fourth of July and New Year’s since Ben can remember, and on the rare handful of holidays Han was home, they always went together.

Rey came one year, once she was old enough to get excited about blowing shit up, but Han hasn’t been home for New Year’s since then—when Ben was thirteen.

Mom tried to get him home junior year, the first holiday season since his...episode in the spring. But Ben had been kind of okay by this time junior year, and hadn’t even missed his dad, since he spent most of the holidays with—

“Hey.”

Han pulls him out of his head to confer about Roman candle sizes; they wind up with a six-pack of regulars and a four-pack of jumbos. The jumbos don’t fit in the basket, so Ben just carries them.

Han sticks smaller boxes of regular sparklers in the basket’s empty crannies, and stacks two plastic packages of long-size sparklers on top of the jumbo candles, dark pink stems sticking out awkwardly. Ben tries not to bonk any of the boxes on the tables with them as he passes, but still swipes a pack of Catherine wheels into a neighboring box.

“ _ Fuck _ !” he curses aloud.

_ Too _ loud.

Han and a couple of women at the end of the line turn to stare at him—of fucking course—and heat creeps across his face He makes to set down the candles and sparklers to pick up the fallen package, but Han stoops faster.

“All good,” Han repeats, gingerly, like he thinks Ben’s some wild animal that needs to be charmed or soothed.

Ben bites his lip and clenches both fists—one at his side, and the other tight around the packages of explosives.

“Ever think this is a shit idea?” he mutters as Han steers them to the end of the register line. “Giving your mentally unstable kid incendiary devices?”

Han’s brows pull down toward a kicked-puppy expression, but he rights it. Manages a signature shrug instead. “You know we trust you, right?”

_ Actually, I don’t _ , Ben wants to say, but he knows better. He just nods. Studies his feet as they shuffle forward toward the register table.

The gray afternoon outside the tent is growing darker, and it doesn’t look like anyone else has come in behind him and Han.

Han fiddles with his wallet, takes inventory of both his cash and their selections, and confirms all of the prices with Ben. Surprisingly, he can actually remember quite a few of them, despite how distracted he’s been, but for the rest he gives Han a dispassionate “ _ sounds right _ .”

“Shit,” Han says, as the women in front of them move up to the cash register. He immediately starts patting his pockets again.

“What?”

“Forgot to get a new lighter.” He hands Ben his wallet, already half-poised to go back. “Give ‘em my ID if they want it first.”

“Oka—“ Ben doesn’t quite finish before he’s gone.

Ben picks at the wallet’s tattered seams for less than a minute before the women lift their purchases in a rustle of very grateful plastic. He readjusts the sparklers and jumbo candles before stepping forward, eyes on the precarious basket.

“Hello, Ben.”

He looks up at his name—and damn near drops every explosive he’s holding.

He almost doesn’t recognize the guy sitting behind the old-fashioned cash register.

Tidily regulated red hair has been replaced by shaved sides and a central outgrown shock. He has gauges in both ears, and black stud bisects his plush lower lip. Over a gray v-neck—not a button-down, what the  _ hell _ — that bares his pale throat and prominent collar bones, he’s wearing a leather jacket. An enamel pride flag pin shines on his lapel.

“Oh, my god,” Ben breathes. “Armitage?”

What has to be Armitage fucking Hux looks him up and down. “How‘s Yale?” he says, and adds belatedly, “You may set your items on the table.”

Ben complies silently with the latter, mouth suddenly too dry to even begin to lie about the former.

It isn’t just that Armitage Hux looks  _ good _ . 

Armitage Hux has always looked good.

He looked good chiding him during quick recall practicen in the fall of junior year, when extracurricular involvement had become part of Ben’s therapy. Armitage Hux looked good at one-on-one drill sessions. Armitage Hux looked good going down on him in the bathroom by the cafeteria, and during all the firsts that came after.

Armitage Hux, as precedent would dictate, also looked good breaking up with him with red-rimmed eyes and ice in his voice at the end of that summer, because his father wouldn’t help a gay son with college, and  _ of course I care for you, Ben, I just can’t trade my future for this, you understand that, don’t you? _

And here he is, strait-laced GQ Armitage Hux, with his pride pin and his body mods.

Armitage picks up a box of sparklers, taps at the register’s chunky keys, then bags the sparklers.

“How’s Yale treating you?” Armitage asks again, primly.

“Yale’s fine.” Ben pulls the rest of the packages out of the basket, without looking at him. “How’s....Columbia, right?”

The only two Ivy League-bound kids in the tri-county area, valedictorian and salutatorian. (The bastard, and the politician’s son.) Ben hasn’t seen him since they both spoke at graduation in May. (Not that they spoke to  _ each other _ .)

Armitage pops his lips, enters the smoke bomb barcode. “Columbia, um. Columbia didn’t happen.”

The hair, the clothes, the mods, the pride. Adds up.

“Shit,” is what Ben says. “I’m sorry?”

“Don’t be.” Armitage bags the smoke bombs with a violent rustle. “I told...a certain proponent of Columbia to fuck off and keep his fucking money. So. Yeah.”

Ben has no idea whether the sudden tightness in his chest is anger or desire. Armitage waited to dispense with his bigot father until  _ after _ he broke Ben’s heart?

But also. Damn. The image of Armitage telling his bigot father where to go and how to get there is. Hot as fuck.

Ben swallows against his dry throat. “So, uh—“ He takes the basket off the table. He’s shocked Armitage is even acting like he knows him. “—what are you—“

_ Doing now _ is cut off by the crunch of approaching footsteps, and then:

“Holy fucking shit.” Han’s new lighter clatters onto the table. “Armitage?”

“Hi, Mr. Solo.” Armitage is examining the artillery package, jacket sleeves riding up to expose the pale, delicate wrists Ben doesn’t need to be noticing.

“You look...” Han trails off, apparently dumbfounded. “What happened to your old man?”

Leave it to fucking Han—

Ben does his best to glare daggers at him, but Armitage just straightens his spine. When Armitage answers, though, there’s an undeniable spark of smug condescension in his tone.

“We’re no longer in touch,” he says.

“That’s good.” Han looks back and forth between Ben and Armitage, looking as helpless as he does when Mom fires a particularly apt jab his way. “That’s good, right?”

Ben shrugs.

“Yes.” Armitage stows the artillery kit and rings up the tanks. “Great, actually.” He still sounds smug, but less than happy.

This is probably awkward as fuck for him, too, Ben realizes. He’s just way better at hiding it.

“Glad to hear it,” Han says, then beats Ben to it: “Whatcha doing these days, then?”

“I’m in tech school part-time here in town. Had enough saved to get my own place, and I’ve been picking up temp work.”

Something about the matter-of-fact way he says it makes Ben’s face burn with shame. Makes him want to rip off the bandages under his sleeves and claw the stitches back open, because he deserves nothing that he has.

Brilliant, ambitious Armitage, working on his Associate’s in Nowhere, USA, when Ben just threw away Yale because his brain was too loud.

_ Idiot, weak, undisciplined, pathetic, waste of— _

“That will be $182.54, sir,” Armitage says.

“Han, please.” Han starts patting his pockets. “You know that, Armie. Shit—“

“I got it.” Ben picks up Han’s wallet from the table, where he must have dropped it earlier, counts out the cash, and passes it to Armitage.

Armitage takes it with a harder grip than he needs to, fingers brushing Ben’s with something like electric shock.

Ben gives Han his wallet, then shoves his hands back into his hoodie, ears burning. Armitage’s fingers—the same ones he just touched—have been inside him and around him. Have pulled his hair and wiped his tears.

And Armitage is sitting across from him, glancing uncertainly between Ben and Han before Han takes his change and receipt. Then Armitage is wishing them both a happy new year like he and Ben were nothing more than classmates. Like everything hasn’t changed.

But maybe nothing has.

“It was good to see you,” Ben says, honestly, politely, as he takes the plastic bags Han hands him.

“You too.”

***

Han whistles low as soon as he thinks they’re out of earshot from the tent. “Armie got a makeover, huh?”

“Dad, please.” Ben’s Converse crunch the gravel underfoot, stirring up dust.

Pink fingers of sunset stab through the clouds as dusk approaches.

“I’m just saying,” Han returns, with an air of spreading his hands. He can’t, though, given the double-bagged explosives in each one. “You’re back in town, he’s  _ still  _ in town...”

“Dad—“

“You guys had a good thing, that’s all I’m saying.”

“It’s in the past,” Ben snaps back as they stop next to the Firebird, and Han sets down his bag to fumble for the car keys.

He shoots Ben a snarky little  _ father-knows-best  _ look, and it’s all Ben can do to keep from punching it off his face right here in the firework tent parking lot.

Han has no fucking right. He wasn’t even home for most of the relationship, much less the end of it. Almost everything he thinks he knows about Armitage is secondhand bullshit from Mom about what a good influence he was. (She had no idea, either.)

Han just thinks Ben needs another good influence, after another episode, but Armitage. Shouldn’t have to be that.

He’s got his life together. He’s clearly his own person. He doesn’t need a high school hanger-on who can’t even kill himself right. He deserves better than Ben.

Han unlocks the trunk and hoists in his bags wordlessly. Ben’s just loaded the Zeus Fluorescents when a voice rings out from behind him:

“Hey. Solo.”

Beside Ben, head still in the trunk, Han mouths  _ oh, fuck _ . By the time he’s turned around, though, Ben can hear the winsome smile in his voice. 

“Happy New Year, Jabba.”

_ Shit.  _

It’s one of the names Ben’s heard periodically over the years, mostly in snatches of conversation in Han’s car, or caught late at night while he paces the den on the phone. Han doesn’t talk about work, but some of it always bleeds through into what he’s attempted to make of a home life.

Ben stows the artillery fireworks in the trunk, then turns around, mirroring Han.

In front of him stands a squatty, oily man with almost a complete face of tattoos, flanked by two guys in Harley vests. Both of them have gotta be packing heat under the leather. It isn’t entirely surprising--the ten p.m. Blizzard runs weren’t always just for Blizzards. 

Still, Mom tried to give the impression that this kind of shit was behind Han for good.

Apparently not.

“End of the year means debts are coming due,” the slimy guy, Jabba, says. “You still owe me 10K, son.”

Han cuts his eyes at Ben, shifting his weight. Probably wishing Uncle Chewie was here instead of his suicidal kid. 

He’ll work it out, like he always does, no doubt. Ben’s less worried than annoyed. Now they’ll be stuck here until Han’s negotiated whatever illegal arrangement he’ll never breathe to anyone outside the underworld circles he runs in.

He cuts his eyes at Ben, though. “Hey, kid. Get in the car or go back inside.”

“Kid?” Jabba looks Ben up and down. “Thought he was your muscle.”

Han smiles with the corners of his mouth, the fine line between wry and sad. “He’s just back from college. Leave him out of it.”

Jabba spreads his hands. “Sure. No quibble with the family. I’m just here to talk business.”

Ben casts a quick look at the Firebird. He could fold himself into the front seat and sit there for the hour or two it’ll probably take, getting colder and more claustrophobic as dusk bleeds into night. Or.

_ Or. _

He could see if maybe Armitage would let him stand inside and play on his phone in the light, where he can at least keep an eye on Han. And maybe--  _ maybe-- _

_ No. _

None of that.

He can at least stretch his legs for the minute or so it will take Armitage to tell him  _ no.  _

“Text when you’re done,” he tells Han, and heads back toward the white tent.

Yellow light spills out of the open entrance flap and into the evening. Ben’s heart is in his throat by the time he’s trudged back across the gravel, and he inhales deep before crossing back inside.

Armitage is the only person left here, and he’s across the tent arranging the Excalibur table. Apparently in response to movement in his periphery, he calls over his shoulder, “We’re closed for today. Re-open at 8 a.m. tomorrow.”

“Sorry,” Ben starts, trying to ignore the tight cut of Armitage’s black jeans, “it’s--”

Armitage turns fully around, meets Ben’s gaze. “Oh. You’re back.”

Ben sticks his hands in his hoodie pocket, dimly aware he probably looks like he’s curling into himself. “Yeah… Han met a business contact out there, and… You know.”

Even two tables away, Armitage’s eyes spark awareness.  _ How could he ever forget Ben’s daddy issues.  _ “I know. You think it might be a while?”

“It kinda looks like it…” Ben trails off, shifting his weight. He feels entirely too small for his skin. “Do you care if I, like, loiter in here while they talk?”

“Not a bit.” Armitage rounds the first row of tables, then the second, until he’s standing directly in front of Ben, eye to eye. 

Even in the shadowy tent, his eyes are stunning, some ocean color that Ben could never quite name. He shouldn’t be looking at them, he shouldn’t--

“But--” Armitage is still talking, and there’s... _ something _ in the way he looks at Ben. Like he’s taking in each of his features individually, never departing his face, but never fully focusing. “--you have to make yourself useful.”

Ben snorts. There’s a part of him sneering that Armitage doesn’t know the half of it, but there’s a louder voice practically  _ deafening  _ him with the fact that Armitage knows the whole. Or did, anyway. Before.

“Tall order,” Ben says, mildly.

“Bullshit,” Armitage returns. “I found quite a few  _ uses  _ for you.” He colors slightly, and Ben feels his ears heating at the implication. 

Armitage hurries back over it: “And so did quick recall, and honor roll…” He turns to the smoke bomb box behind him, and pulls what are apparently its last four packs, setting them on the plastic tabletop, before grabbing the box itself. “And Yale, I imagine.”

“Yeah.” Ben does his best to steel his expression. “Yale’s great. Like I said. Really pretty area.”

“Connecticut’s always looked nice.” Without meeting Ben’s eyes, he passes the empty box to him. “And how are the classes?”

“Fine,” Ben doesn’t quite lie. It wasn’t like it was the classes’ fault that he couldn’t handle...any of it. “How are yours?” he blurts, anything to redirect the topic from the disaster that has been the past four months.

Armitage shrugs, takes a few steps further down the table, and scoops out a few racecar firecrackers as he did the smoke bombs. “Easy. I’d double up on my credit hours if the class schedule could accommodate work hours at all.” He hands another empty box to Ben. 

They’re not heavy, but they’re awkward-ish. He won’t be able to hold a third in his arms, will have to hold them by the flaps, two to the hand, he guesses. 

“No surprise there,” he ventures, in response to Armitage. “Guessing you haven’t studied even once?”

“A little bit,” Armitage seems to admit, passing him another box, without having to extract anything from it. “Some memorization stuff they didn’t completely cover in class.”

Ben has no idea what to say to that. There would’ve been a time he teased him ( _ how the mighty have fallen),  _ but he’s tired and depressed and also just fucking confused as to why Armitage has any interest in speaking to him.

It wasn’t like he’d ever been cruel to Ben senior year, after breaking up with him--he’d just acted as if Ben didn’t exist. It was probably the only thing that would satisfy his dad, of course, but that didn’t mean the indifference didn’t hurt more than any vitriol he could have spewed. (Any attention he could have shown.)

Ben shouldn’t even be talking to a guy who did... _ that _ to him--they could’ve tried the secret thing, like they had been--but it wasn’t exactly Armitage’s fault. Ben  _ had  _ understood, for all it broke him.

“Cool,” he says, lamely. Since Armitage appears talkative--he always is, when you get him comfortable, which he oddly seems to be--he asks, like he would any given acquaintance, “How do you like living by yourself?”

Armitage takes out some noisemaking snap firecrackers and hands Ben a fourth box. Ben balances the third on his opposite arm before situating both of them at his side by the flaps. 

Armitage purses his lips, and says with the exaggerated mildness Ben knows too well, “It’s alright. I like the space.”

“Beats what you used to have,” Ben says, before he can stop himself.

“You can say that again.”

“Beats--” Ben cuts himself off, but Armitage cuts his eyes at him over his shoulder, lip quirked like it does when Ben used to catch him halfway to a laugh.

“Still obnoxious, I see,” Armitage replies, so obviously teasing that Ben wants to kiss the half-smile off his mouth. Wants to roll the new stud under his tongue, see if that will make him moan.

“Still an asshole, I see.” 

_ And gorgeous and smart and resilient and composed--despite everything--and hardworking and perfect-- _

Armitage just smirks, keeps walking toward the register table, off of which he grabs a clipboard, then approaches the smaller, closed flap behind it. He reaches up to unpin it, then holds the flap for Ben to duck under. 

Outside, a battered livestock semi-trailer sits behind the tent, doors bolted, off its axles and level with the ground, apparently being used for storage.

A few empty boxes sit beside it, clearly trash, and Armitage points to them. “You can dump those here.” He extracts his phone from his jacket pocket, unlocks it long enough to turn on the flashlight, then passes it to Ben. “Hold this while I open ‘er up.”

“Sure.”

Ben shines the flashlight on the trailer’s locked latch while Armitage pulls a laden keyring out of his other pocket, then carefully examines several keys before landing on what must be the correct one.

The doors swing back with a turn of the key, and he pulls them apart, stepping nimbly into the trailer and batting at one of the walls, before soft fluorescents flicker on overhead.

“I have some heavy lifting for you,” Armitage calls behind him. 

Ben takes the small step up and through the doors. Inside, tidy stacks of cardboard boxes, similar to the ones on most of the tables, line every corner of the trailer. It smells faintly of charcoal and whatever animal they used to keep in here.

Armitage seems to know where he’s going. He stops to pull a box of smoke bombs, and Ben holds out his arms.

“Thanks,” he says, but nothing else.

The silence grows, though, as he jots down what must be an inventory notation on his clipboard, then moves to the next stack. Ben runs the smoke bombs to the entrance of the trailer, metal clanging a bit under his shoes.

When he gets back, though, he can’t stand it. Especially not with Armitage fully bent over a box of sparklers, in those jeans that have to have been specifically designed to make Ben lose his mind. 

Heat pools below his waist just watching a foot away, and--

No.

_ Say something, say anything, just don’t-- _

“I like the new look.”

That at least gets Armitage to stand up. He’s arched an eyebrow, and there’s a part of Ben that’s already gone. “Really? I thought the Fortune 500 Junior thing did it for you.”

“No, I mean, yeah, it did--”  _ Because  _ you  _ do it for me, idiot. Wearing anything or nothing at all.  _ “But this whole post-hipster aesthetic you have going really works, too.”

Armitage huffs a laugh. “Post-hipster?”

Ben ignores the question. “Has Brendol seen it yet? He’ll have a fucking heart attack.” It’s always been easier focusing on Armitage’s problems than his own.

“Saving it for something special,” Armitage returns, but his expression flickers slightly. He briefly thins his lips. “I keep worrying I’ll run into him before I’m ready. The town’s only so big.”

It’s an awfully sudden thing to be telling your ex, but it’s always been like this between them. Easy. Even when it felt like butting heads at first, it was pure  _ chemistry _ , or at least Ben had thought so.

“What’s he going to do if he does?” Ben asks, mostly rhetorically. “You’re an adult.”  _ Like I’m supposed to be. _

Armitage shrugs. “Just not ready for that.”

“That’s fair.”

Ben wants to ask if he’s considered leaving town, like he spent at least all of junior year planning, if not longer. They’d both been going to apply to Georgetown. Be roommates in D.C. and take over the world together. 

So much for that.

Armitage takes a few steps down from the sparkler stacks, eyes on his clipboard. Ben follows close, until he stops by one of the few stacks that goes over his head. The outside of the box at eye level indicates it contains the racecars.

Armitage makes another mark on his inventory sheet and eyes the top box. It’s not out of reach, but Ben’s faster. On a whim, in one more or less fluid motion, he steps well into Armitage’s personal space, reaches well over his head to grab the box with both hands.

“ _ Hey _ ,” Armitage’s hand flies up to rest on his elbow, and Ben turns to face him. His lips are twitching in another of those poorly concealed smiles, less than an inch from Ben’s.

Ben’s heart thuds in his ears. “Thought I was here for the lifting.”

“I guess,” Armitage sighs, but his hand doesn’t leave Ben’s elbow, light pressure even through the thick hoodie. He holds Ben’s gaze for far longer than he ought, and it’s not like Ben can look away. 

It’s not like he’s ever been anything  _ like capable  _ of looking away.

Armitage wets his lips, teasing the stud, and Ben hardly breathes before he starts talking again. “I keep wishing…” he murmurs, trails off, restarts, apparently picking up the threads of deeper conversation. “Every day I wish I’d done it sooner.”

“What, walked out on Brendol?”

Armitage nods, clenching his eyes shut. “I was such a coward, for so long.”

Armitage Hux is many things, but a coward isn’t one of them.

“You were a kid.” Ben drops his free hand from the box to squeeze Armitage’s bicep. The leather creaks quietly. “You stayed as long as you had to.”

“It was too long, I--” His eyes search Ben’s face. “I hurt you, and I didn’t have to.”

Ben shakes his head. “You did have to. I got it. It was fine.”

“It wasn’t.”

“I’m okay,” Ben returns, with finality, meaning to comfort Armitage, but his face falls instead, and his grip on Ben’s sleeve relaxes.

“Of course you are. Of course you are. You’re off at Yale living your best life.” He gives Ben a watery smile and pats his elbow. “I’m happy for you.”

_ You have no idea,  _ much more of Ben is screaming now,  _ you have no fucking  _ clue _ \-- _

“Don’t be,” Ben blurts, before he can stop himself. Feeling his face heat up, he stumbles over something worse, “Look, I-- I missed you, too.”

Armitage’s nose crinkles up like it does when he’s trying to solve a puzzle. “You--”

“Fuck yes.” Ben doesn’t give him time to respond, doesn’t give him _ self _ time to think. 

_ Can’t  _ really think about much besides the fact that Armitage’s lips are far too close to his own, and that he couldn’t stand to hear one more second of Armitage blaming himself for what Brendol did to him. Any of it.

He presses forward, cups Armitage’s face, and crushes his lips against Armitage’s. Armitage makes a small, startled noise into Ben’s mouth before relaxing into the kiss, his own hand falling from Ben’s elbow to work through his hair. 

His mouth is warm and slick against Ben’s, pliant and needy, chasing Ben’s lips at even the slightest pause. He shudders under Ben’s tongue as he probes his lips, experimentally turning the stud, without fully breaching his mouth.

Armitage’s left hand slides to his waist, and he presses his body against Ben’s, slotting their hips together, only breaking the kiss long enough for Ben to breathe,  _ “This thing is so hot _ ,” onto the lipring before he closes the distance again, tugging at Ben’s hair.

Blood drops unmistakably to Ben’s cock at the contact, the pressure of Armitage’s body and the way he pushes past Ben’s lips, the familiar shape of his tongue against Ben’s own. Armitage is getting hard too, the outline of his semi pressing against Ben’s crotch.

He feels so good, and his tongue is incredible, and it’s as if no time has passed since  _ before.  _ No breakup, no coldness, no graduation, no Yale. No hospitals or ugly phone calls or awkward homecomings. 

Just this: just Armitage and his incredible slim body and his soft mouth. But also the solid shape of his stud, the roughness of the buzzed sides where his sideburns used to be. He has a bit of scruff around his mouth.

Ben almost doesn’t realize when Armitage starts rucking up his hoodie and the band t-shirt underneath, hands cold as ever on Ben’s back. 

_ Shit. _

Ben’s long sleeves can’t come off, not with his wrists still--

He breaks the kiss long enough to still Armitage’s arms.

Half an inch from his own, Armitage’s gaze flickers, brows pinch. “What?”

“Don’t,” Ben whispers, but he can feel his pulse in his cock, and Armitage is dragging a finger up and down the base of his spine.

Armitage leans in and kisses the corner of his mouth, his cheek, his jaw. “Don’t you want--”

“Can’t you--” Ben breathes, “--without--”

“I missed all of you,” Armitage replies. “I missed--”

It’s Ben who renews the kiss this time--it isn’t like he can do anything else, with Armitage’s mouth nearly on top of his own, with Armitage’s erection digging into his thigh. He teases the stud again, and Armitage lets out a high-pitched noise in the back of his throat.

His hands climb higher, exposing more of Ben’s back to the cool air, but Ben’s warm enough not to care. Armitage grinds into him, and what can he do but grind back, but lift his arms and let Armitage slip all of it off over his head and into the floor, baring his shoulders, his chest, his arms, his--

Ben moves in to kiss Armitage again, pull him and his leather and his little pride pin flush against Ben’s own bare skin, but with a glance down, Armitage grabs both of his wrists. And takes a step back. 

His thumbs rest just above the matching white bandages, week-old gauze and medical tape.

“Ben,” he breathes, with a glance between Ben’s wrists and his eyes, “what did you do?”

“I--”

“You went back to this.” Hux bites his lip, hard around the stud, voice suddenly thick with unshed tears. 

“Yeah.” Ben swallows hard, blinks futilely against tears of his own. Armitage’s have always been contagious, for him.

“Ben.” Armitage rubs the small uncovered strip of skin on his pulse point.

“Yeah,” Ben repeats, voice splintering, finally. “Yale actually sucked.”

“Oh, love.”

Armitage only drops Ben’s wrists to shed his jacket, then wrap his arms around Ben’s neck, t-shirt soft against Ben’s chest and stomach, stubble rough against his cheek. Ben buries his nose in Armitage’s neck and pulls him tight, easily enveloping his slim frame.

Armitage is still for a moment, before he turns his head enough to mouth at the shell of his ear. He’s gentle and undemanding—it’s barely more than  _ pecks _ —but it still goes straight to Ben’s cock.

“Fuck, baby, I—“ Ben starts. Means to tell him to quit while they’re both ahead. 

But Armitage drops his arms again, both hands resting at Ben’s belt. Ben’s gaze follows him down. He can’t help but notice that Armitage’s own erection has flagged considerably. 

No turnoff like the reminder that your ex is still mentally unsound.

“You don’t have to—“ he tries again, as Armitage’s fingers start on his buckle. 

Armitage’s hands freeze, and he looks up, holding Ben’s gaze. “Let me,” he breathes. “Please.”

There’s an unusual edge of desperation in his voice, something pleading in his eyes. 

“Let me?” he repeats, and dips his head. He rolls the heel of his hand over the hard line of Ben’s cock, and Ben’s hips buck into the pressure.

Emotion still lingers at the back of Ben’s throat, and he has no idea why Armitage wants this. (As if he ever has, but—)

And Armitage is beautiful, pupils somehow fat with desire, and the friction of his slender hand against Ben’s clothed erection is too much, too good, and—

Ben nods. “Yes.”

Armitage’s hands make quick work of his belt buckle, drop to his fly. 

“Yes,” Ben repeats, voice cracking. “Please, I want you, please—“

Armitage drops to his knees, with a tinny clank against the trailer’s floor. Ben leans part of his weight against the artillery kit boxes behind him, then frees his cock from his boxers with unsteady hands. 

It curls dark red toward his bare stomach, precome pearling on the crown. He’s expecting Armitage’s mouth immediately, but instead he takes hold of Ben’s hips, hooks his thumb under his boxers and his open jeans, and slides them down nearly to his knees. 

His left hand comes back up to rest on Ben’s hip, but he takes Ben’s left hand in his right, presses his lips to the knuckles, the palm, the pulse point. He looks up from Ben’s hand to meet his eyes. 

Ben cups his face, drags his fingers through the undercut, which looks entirely different from above. 

Armitage tongues his lip ring, which appears to be a new nervous tic. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

“Don’t say that.”

Armitage doesn’t respond before sliding his other hand to Ben’s other hip and bringing his face so close to Ben’s shaft, he can feel the warmth of his breath. 

Then, his  _ tongue.  _ The kitten licks Armitage starts with shouldn’t almost undo Ben, shouldn’t make his cock twitch and his grip tighten involuntarily in Armitage’s perfectly-styled hair.

But it’s  _ Armitage _ , and he’s gorgeous, and the gentle brush of his tongue is unbearable, and Ben hasn’t even jerked off since October, and all at once he’s breathing  _ fuck, fuck, fuck  _ into the stale air of the trailer. 

Just when he’s sure he can’t handle one second more of it, Armitage pulls back and wraps one pale hand around Ben’s shaft, stroking gently as he takes the head of Ben’s cock between his lips. He swirls his tongue around it, all wet heat and easy rhythm. 

It feels incredible. Ben drags his fingers along Armitage’s scalp. A part of him wants to close his eyes and tip his head back, just enjoy the sensation, but another part of him wants to drink Armitage in—his pretty hands and his impeccable hair and his sharp cheekbones. Absorb this while it lasts. 

Armitage pulls off after a moment, breath shallow. “Sorry,” he murmurs. “Out of practice.”

Ben traces his thumb down his cheek. “It’s perfect,” he says. More precome is already dripping down his shaft. “You’re perfect.”

Armitage says nothing, just inhales and takes Ben again, this time swallowing past the head, his hand’s rhythm only faltering a bit as he takes him deeper still. His cheeks hollow out in the shape of his skull, and his golden lashes flutter over watering eyes. 

He finally drops the hand he’s been jerking Ben with, slipping it between Ben’s legs instead to massage first one of his balls, then the other, just hard enough to draw a moan from the back of Ben’s throat.

He swirls his tongue again as he draws closer to the base of Ben’s cock, and Ben’s hips twitch, fucking involuntarily into the back of his throat. 

Armitage gives way at that, pulling off again, panting.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Ben breathes. 

“It’s fine,” Armitage replies, hoarse. He massages circles into Ben’s hips. 

Ben can feel his pulse in his leaking cock, and Armitage Hux wiping spit off his soft chin is the hottest thing he’s ever seen.

Still, he’s out of breath, flushed crimson.

“You don’t—“ Ben swallows, catching his breath. “You don’t have to take all of it.” _Of_ _me._

“I know.”

But Armitage still takes him again, more quickly this time, one hand sliding down from his hip to knead his ass. His hands are warm now, and it feels obscenely good.

Ben does his best not to fuck Armitage’s mouth, but his hips buck against his will as his climax approaches. Armitage only leans into it now, like a form of permission.

Ben’s hands stay in Armitage’s hair, his mouth hot around Ben’s shaft, as he takes more and more, and Ben’s vision goes fuzzy at the edges. 

He has to make this last, he never wants it to end, he could stay in this storage trailer forever, with firework boxes digging into his back and Armitage Hux’s lips around his dick. 

Armitage’s nose suddenly presses cool against the trail of hair between Ben’s belly button and the base of his cock. 

“ _ Fuck,”  _ Ben breathes, as his vision tunnels for a moment, then resolves partially into black specks.

There isn’t much Armitage can do with his tongue with Ben’s entire cock down his throat, but those movements he does make are  _ so much _ .

Ben has to keep it together. He has to—

“You’re—“ Ben murmurs, “you’re always so good at this.”

Armitage’s tongue twitches again, and Ben’s vision blurs as his orgasm hits, suddenly unfurling at the base of his spine.

Armitage makes a startled sound in the back of his throat, but shockingly doesn’t pull off, swallowing back Ben’s release as his climax shudders through him.

It seems to last forever, and at some point Ben closes his eyes. He opens them at the burst of coolness that comes with Armitage pulling off, his own cock going flaccid between the two of them.

Armitage’s hands have dropped to splay across his thighs, as if bracing himself. His breathing is audible, back heaving under his t-shirt. His arms look tiny from this angle, Ben notices, poking out of the wide sleeves. He coughs lightly, and the sound lodges somewhere between Ben’s ribs.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he says, his own voice less than steady. He fumbles his underwear and jeans back up, readjusting his cock but not his belt, before sinking to his knees in front of Armitage.

He spreads an uncomfortable hand across his back. “You okay?”

Armitage looks up. His face is wrecked: eyes red, cheeks and chin damp with tears and spit and come. But he raises a thumb to his lips, and licks it, swiping it across Ben’s own sticky cheek. 

“There,” he says, still sounding waterlogged, but the corners of his mouth lift in a genuine smile.

“Here.” Ben gropes beside him for his Metallica t-shirt and hands it to Armitage, who takes it immediately, swiping it across his face in a series of jerky motions.

“Sorry,” he says, holding it awkwardly once he’s done, as if not sure whether to offer it back dirty.

Ben snatches it from him and pulls it back on, a little damp against his stomach, but fine. Like a souvenir.

“All good,” he says, before his gaze drifts to Armitage’s lap. He can still make out the outline of his thick cock, but it’s nowhere near straining like it was. “Do you want me to…”

Armitage shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it.” 

Ben takes him at his word, suddenly too tired to insist. He shuffles to sit beside Armitage instead, loops both arms around him like a shield, and pulls him close. 

Armitage leans into the contact, arms coming up to grip Ben’s. He tucks his head under Ben’s chin, and Ben kisses the mussed crown of it.

Ben has no idea what to begin saying, but he doesn’t want to let go. 

His knees dig into the metal floor, and the position’s less than comfortable, but Armitage’s breathing is evening out, coming warm against his throat, and he can’t let go.

Ben closes his eyes, holding Armitage like he’s going to disappear, pressed warm and tight against him like everything is okay. 

He doesn’t know how long it’s been when his phone vibrates in his back pocket, shattering the wordless calm.

“Damnit,” he mutters, disentangling himself to grope for the buzzing device.

His lock screen shows  _ One new message  _ from _ Dad: _

_ All set with the boss man. Ready when you are, kiddo. _

“That was Han. I gotta—“ Ben starts, making to stand up. 

Armitage combs a hand through Ben’s hair. “I know.”

After Ben stands, Armitage takes his hand up.

***

“So how’s Armie?”

A few minutes down the dark highway, Han’s finally decided to attempt conversation. The Firebird’s headlights shine two yellow beams out onto the asphalt, the fields and trees on either side of the road completely shrouded by full night. 

“Good,” Ben replies, leaning comfortably into the leather seat. 

He still feels a little blissed out, like the car and the road and the headlights are all surreal, an irrelevant blur on the edge of his awareness, completely overshadowed by the memory of Armitage’s mouth, his smile, his skinny shoulders, his rainbow pin.

They parted in a rush, the Firebird already running by the time they left the trailer. Ben confirmed that he was back in town more or less indefinitely, then they swapped  _ see-you-around _ ’s and a final chaste-ish peck before Ben rushed out and into Han’s passenger seat.

He’s been hoping the darkness of the car is hiding his kiss-swollen lips.

“Y’all get caught up?” Han asks, eyes on the road.

“Yeah,” Ben sighs, “we got caught up.”

“Good.” Han drums his fingers against the wheel, and is quiet for a moment. “You invite him to New Year’s?”

Ben sits forward, inwardly cursing. It didn’t so much as cross his sex-drunk mind.

“No,” he says, “I mean. Would he even want to come.”

He isn’t sure about that. Any of it. They had a moment, but they made no concrete plans, and—

A moment is going to have to be enough.

“I dunno,” Han replies, and takes his left hand off the wheel to pat at his pocket. 

The Firebird swerves momentarily, and Han corrects it one-handed, passing a crumpled piece of paper from hand to hand, and then to Ben.

Ben unwads the fireworks receipt, a dime falling into the abyss of the floorboard as he does so. He scans the list of items by the light from the headlights, brow furrowing.

“Dad, what—“

“Other side.”

Ben flips over the receipt and holds it up toward the windshield. On the back, in the thin, cramped handwriting he knows all too well, is the name  _ Armitage Hux, _ and a phone number Ben doesn’t recognize.

The Firebird thrums, and Ben reads it over, absorbing every digit individually.

_ Maybe… _

“Why don’t you text him?”

A smile spreads across Ben’s face, as if out of his control, traced there by an invisible hand. 

“Okay.”

He reaches for his phone, and remembers how to hope.

**Author's Note:**

> Title lovingly pilfered from Fall Out Boy~
> 
> Thanks for reading, and come say hi on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/imperialhuxness)!


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